


Those Eyes You Got Can’t Fool Me

by skoosiepants



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Kid Fic, M/M, Tumblr Prompt
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-04
Updated: 2016-05-04
Packaged: 2018-06-06 09:34:03
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,487
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6748471
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/skoosiepants/pseuds/skoosiepants
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Stiles accidentally kidnaps Hot Asshole Hale’s niece, through absolutely no fault of his own.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Those Eyes You Got Can’t Fool Me

**Author's Note:**

> Originally posted on tumblr for the prompt:  
> Anonymous said: i would like a story where Stiles’ daughter brings home a puppy and begs to keep it and deputy Derek attempts to arrest Stiles for kidnapping his niece
> 
> Cleaned up and edited all tidy! Title is from the Avett Brothers, Kind of in Love. Sometimes I miss Hot Asshole Derek a heck of a lot. Also: Stiles is a dad.

It’s Stiles’s fault. He’s willing to accept at least half of the blame, because he probably should have noticed sooner. And he would have noticed sooner, honestly, if he wasn’t so freaking exhausted and gone half the time. That part isn’t exactly his fault, but it’s just one more thing to feel guilty about—working so many hours with Deaton on sacred Emissary missions in order for Scott to be considered a worthy enough Alpha to dispute the Hale territory lines that just keep spilling further and further into the McCall’s claimed part of the town. It’s a hot mess, and the Hale Alpha is being a huge _douchenozzle_ about this, and thus Stiles can barely function at home, when he even _is_ at home.

He has flashbacks of his dad working non-stop hours after his mom’s death, and that’s what finally has him catching a breath, staring at Izzy and the fuzzy brown puppy she has on her lap.

Izzy says, “I told you about her two days ago,” with a petulant curve to her mouth.

Right. Two days ago Stiles had been coming off an offensive ward bender-slash-crash course and hadn’t been able to use his fingers for eighteen hours straight after, let alone his brain. He presses his palms into his eye-sockets, sighs, and says, “And Melissa said you could keep her?”

Izzy goes from petulant to shifty in three seconds flat.

Stiles groans. The thing is: he remembers hearing more than one voice coming from Izzy’s room at night, Izzy’s been cleaning her plate at dinner _suspiciously well_ , and Stiles should have known.

Goddamn it.

He needs to figure out a way to fix this, ideally without anyone else knowing.

The ‘puppy’ whines softly and snuggles further into Izzy’s lap.

*

Apparently Scott’s claim to his half of Beacon Hills is only as good as his pack. A pack which consists of, currently, a fox demon, a werewolf with anger-management problems, a banshee, three humans—one a middle-aged hunter—and Stiles, a human with a nearly pathetic showing of a Spark.

Deaton agreed to train him up to snuff only when the Hales started marking places that weren’t theirs to mark—the high school, Stiles’s favorite coffee shop, the _sheriff station_. And it’s one thing to live amongst each other, apparently, and quite another to rub your stank all over the place—an insult to the nose and also apparently Scott’s True Alpha standing. Ugh. Stiles was tired of this posturing five months ago, but now he wants to collect up his five-year-old daughter and move to Canada.

It has nothing to do with the Hale werewolf pup he’s apparently been harboring for two days at all.

When he runs out of options and calls Scott to confess, Scott says, “Stiles! That’s great! We’ve been looking for her for days!” and then when Stiles tells him she’s been at his house the whole time he gets super quiet. Super, super quiet.

And then he says, “Oh no.”

But, see, Stiles has hardly been here at all, so basically his dad and Melissa signed up for this trouble, not Stiles.

Scott says, “I have to tell Derek.”

“Of course you do,” Stiles says. It’s a good thing Deaton told him he was getting the hang of all these wards.

*

Derek Hale is a douchebag. Derek Hale rolled into town with his small but douchey pack and proceeded to smirk at Stiles over the rim of his sunglasses at every opportunity. He flirts with all of Stiles’s favorite baristas, charmed his way into his dad’s good graces _and_ a uniform, and all Stiles gets from it is various and sundry knocks on the head—slammed into a steering wheel (Derek), clocked with his own alternator (Erica), outright punched (Cora, but he’s pretty sure that was an actual accident.)

So Stiles lines his house with mountain ash and makes Izzy and the wolf pup mac and cheese and sits them in front of the TV and waits.

It doesn’t take long.

The back of Stiles’s neck prickles at the howls. And then he shivers at the rage in Hale’s voice when he hits the barrier and shouts, “Stilinski!”

Stiles cracks open a window in the living room and yells, “I want my dad here. And Isaac.” Isaac is the least threatening of all of them. Which isn’t saying much, but whatever. Also, he’s well aware that he’s making this a hostage situation, but there’s not much else to do when there’re five rage monsters on his doorstep. He’s certainly not going to just let them all inside.

“Stilinski,” Hale roars again. “I’m going to rip your head off.”

“Not exactly an incentive for me to cooperate,” Stiles says, peering through the curtains.

Hale looks ridiculously handsome in his deputy uniform, but he also has a gun on his belt. And a Taser. He draws in a big breath and his eyes turn red and his fangs drop and Stiles finds none of that attractive. Right.

Stiles is not opening any of his wards until his dad gets there. And maybe Scott.

“I have enough mac and cheese to last a week, Hale, you can’t smoke me out.” Stiles regrets the words immediately, especially when Hale drops the Alpha posturing—he shoves his hands through his hair and says, “Jesus, Stiles, _Please_.”

Crap.

He’s going to regret this, isn’t he?

Stiles places a hand on the windowsill, rubs a thumb at the invisible mark, and says, “Fine, okay. C’mon in.”

*

To his credit, Hale sends in Isaac. Stiles suspects it’s mostly because he doesn’t trust himself not to rip Stiles’s throat out, and Stiles appreciates the thought.

Isaac snaps his teeth at him, tosses the ends of his scarf over his shoulder, and leans over to pick up the yappy pup hopping around his feet.

Izzy is hiding, like they’ve practiced over and over for emergencies just like this.

And then Hale is on his front stoop and the pup is transforming into a spindly tyke about the size and age of Izzy and throwing herself at Hale with a squealingly happy, “Uncle Derek!”

Hale glares at Stiles over the top of her head. He says, “How did you do it?” like he’s biting into a lemon.

“Um. Do what?” Stiles has one hand on the door, ready to slam it in their faces.

“You hid her scent for days,” Hale says. Then slightly more plaintive, “Why?”

Stiles fights off the urge to say ‘ _trade secret’_ with jazz hands. Instead, he says, “My home is warded, asshole. There are no scents here.” He waves his hands around, and Hale cocks his head and sniffs.

Stiles does not find that adorable.

“Not to mention the fact that this was an _accident_ , and I didn’t even know she was here, and if you’re set on pressing charges you should take it up with my dad.” _Who’s your boss_ , he doesn’t add, but he feels like the pointed eyebrow lift speaks for itself.

Hale and his four douchebag betas give him the evil eye all the way back to their cars, but the kid throws Stiles a happy wave over Hale’s shoulder.

Scott, of course, pulls up just as they’re peeling out—he spills out of Kira’s tiny hatchback and says, breathless, “Sorry, surgery, what’d I miss?”

“Your arch nemesis is out to get me now,” Stiles says sourly, just as Izzy streaks down the stairs and barrels into Scott and wraps her arms around his waist.

She wails, “They took away my best friend!”

Scott looks bewildered. He pats her back and says, “Um. Sorry? Can’t you play at school?”

“Yes,” she pouts, but she doesn’t look happy about it.

*

Scott hates the Hale pack just as much as Stiles does, but they don’t agree on their agenda. Scott thinks Hale is here to coexist peacefully and maybe take back some of the territory the Hale family owned before, even though every time they rub their hands all over Scott’s mailbox it’s a blatant insult.

But, see, Scott hasn’t been faced with the full force of Erica’s breasts and Boyd’s terrifying competence and Cora’s passive-aggressive coffee making skills, where she keeps spelling his name wrong on all the cups at his favorite coffee shop.

She says, “Large latte, whip cream, cinnamon, for that asshole who kidnapped my niece,” with the blandest fucking look on her face.

Stiles slinks forward, red-faced, and hisses, “Harpy,” at her before grabbing his cup and booking it.

And you know what? It’s all fun and games until Izzy disappears.

*

Somewhere in between school and the school bus and home, Izzy went AWOL. Izzy has a mind of her own, so sometimes she ends up at her grandpa’s, or the station, or the diner down the road with Mrs. Carfunkle—even though Stiles has yelled himself hoarse at her about wandering off, it’s like Stiles 2.0, his dad is a _saint_ —but she isn’t at any of her usual haunts.

“We should call Derek,” Scott says, visibly shaken. “We helped when Penny was missing.”

Stiles shoots upright from his slump on the sidewalk. “Hale!” he says. He jumps to his feet and stalks over to his jeep. Motherfucking _Hale_. This has his massive, hairy hands all over it.

“Stiles,” Scott says, moving after him. “Should I call Derek?”

“No,” Stiles says grimly. “I’m pretty sure I know exactly where Izzy is.”

*

The Hale house was a tragic, derelict monstrosity for nearly a decade, but it only took less than half a year for Hale to build it back up again. Stiles’s best guess is that he threw more money than Stiles has ever seen in his life at it and the walls went up and now it’s this huge, sprawling southern style manor house with climbing ivy all over quaint white trellises and a duck pond and a fucking gazebo at the edge of the woods.

Stiles slams the jeep door shut and shouts, “Hale!” at the top of his lungs, even though they all probably heard him coming from miles away.

The screen door eases open before Stiles even reaches the bottom step of the porch. Hale leans a shoulder against a railing post, idly wiping his hands with a dish rag—there are water splotches all over his tight white tank top, and Stiles wants to rip it off him and punch him in the face at the same time.

“What the hell did you do with Izzy?” Stiles says, voice low and furious.

Hale straightens up, hands dropping loose to his sides. “Who?”

“Whatever clusterfuck happened with Penny was an accident, douche-weasel," Stiles says, stomping up the steps so he’s chest to chest with him. He watches Hale mouth _douche-weasel_ with a half-bemused, half-concerned look on his face. “Now _what the fuck did you do with Izzy_?”

Stiles pokes him in the chest, digs his finger right in there, and refuses to flinch at the feeling of jabbing a brick wall.

Christ, werewolves are so annoying.

Hale wraps a hand around his wrist, hisses, “Stop poking me,” and also, “What are you talking about?”

Stiles rips his hand away. Hale lets him go easily, but grabs for the front of Stiles’s shirt when he sways backward, tripping down a step before catching himself.

Stiles says, “Izzy is missing! The only possible explanation is that you took her.”

They have an audience now. Erica with her hands on her hips; Isaac with his fingers tangled in his hair, hand on top of his head; Boyd and Cora with their arms crossed over their chests, frowning.

Cora says, “Who’s Izzy?” like they’re all a bunch of fucking morons.

Stiles clenches his hands into fists and says, “I am going to go get my dad’s gun and Mr. Argent and shoot every single one of you in the heart with wolfsbane if you don’t give me back my daughter.”

*

Stiles sometimes gets a little crazy about Izzy. The details of her origins are more fae than anyone would like—he lives in constant fear of some mystical force taking her away, just as easily as she’d shown up, plopped on his doorstep with a thank-you card and his wide brown eyes.

His rage is down to a quiet simmer by the time he gets into Hale’s sitting room—a motherfucking formal _sitting room_ —though, and he accepts tea from Boyd and clutches at the fine bone china with white-knuckled fingers and tries not to have a panic attack.

Izzy is not there.

Neither, though, is Penny, and that’s the only thing that gives him hope.

“Our kids are gonna grow up and get married,” Stiles tries to joke, but his face feels stiff and Hale is looking at him like he’s something fragile.

He doesn’t feel like going into the whole magical kid thing, but from the way Isaac is nodding into his phone, he thinks maybe Scott is doing it for him.

Hale’s face gets tighter and tighter, the longer the phone conversation goes on. And then he says, “I think I know where they are.”

*

The preserve is usually a _delight_ ; a beacon of supernatural assholes ever since they accidentally woke up the Nemeton. Stiles shivers and tugs his thin hoodie tighter around his body and doesn’t bother trying to be stealthy. That damn old tree always knows the minute he or Scott steps into the forest—maybe they should just give up and give everything to the Hales, they can start over in San Fran or Hollywood or some place with more concrete than fresh air. All nature does is give them trouble.

And Izzy, who is _also_ trouble, but generally of the good kind.

They aren’t heading to the Nemeton now, though.

Hale seems to know exactly where he’s going. He stops only once, to drop his jacket over Stiles’s shoulders, and Stiles isn’t complaining—he slips his arms through the warm leather and surreptitiously sniffs at the collar before giving a smirking Erica the finger.

Hale is a _hot_ douchebag, all this is allowable.

After a good twenty minutes of walking, straight back from the Hale house, Hale stops under a thick oak tree, tips his head up and says, “Penelope. Come down. Now.”

Stiles tips his head back, too, and sees a massive and impressively detailed treehouse, like a mini castle among the treetops, and he’d be more intrigued with it if he knew for sure Izzy was safe and warm inside.

Isaac wrinkles his nose and says, “I don’t smell her,” and Stiles panics for a full minute before he remembers Izzy is made of magic and can make her Barbies dance all over her room to Taylor Swift.

Stiles cups his hands over his mouth and yells up, “Isadora Joan Stilinksi, _come down here now_.”

Izzy’s head pops out of a window. She says, “Daddy?”

Stiles can feel Hale staring at the side of his head, like he didn’t actually think any of what Stiles or Scott had told them all was true. He ignores him and purses his lips and says, “Izzy. Izzy, what have I told you about _running away?_ ”

Izzy says, “That it’ll give you heart palpitations and an early grave?”

Stiles says, low, “Izzy,” and watches with his heart in his throat as she scrambles out the window and down a rickety rope ladder and then hops into his arms from just about halfway down. He presses his face to the top of her head and says, “I’m getting Uncle Scott to chip you.”

It’s only half a joke. And only because Scott refuses to actually chip her.

Penny climbs out after Izzy, a whirlwind of smiles and happiness, like she doesn’t get how much trouble she’s in, or she just doesn’t give a fuck.

She’s a Hale, though, so Stiles is going with that one.

Hale says, “You are in so much trouble, young lady,” and Penny just grins at him.

*

It’s getting late, the sky is slowly and steadily growing dark, and Izzy falls asleep slumped over Stiles’s shoulder before they make it back to the Hale house. He’s exhausted and strung out and Izzy is snoring in his ear and he feels a little like he might cry, if he thinks about it too hard.

At the jeep, he gently fits Izzy in her car seat. She flutters her eyelids and mumbles, “Marshmallows,” and Stiles rubs his thumb along her cheek.

He sighs and rolls his forehead wearily on the top of the door frame, body slumped.

“Ok,” he says, without turning around. “You win.”

“I win what?” Hale says, voice close.

“This—” Stiles flaps his hand the air, and spins around. “This pissing contest,” he spits out. “This whatever the fuck you think you’re doing in Beacon Hills after ten goddamn years, Hale. You want us out? Fine. We’ll leave.” He doesn’t actually know if they can leave, but he’ll talk to Scott about it. Maybe. Probably not, but Hale can just suck it.

Hale is staring at him like he’s crazy. He furrows his brow a little and says, “Okay?”

“Okay,” Stiles says. He’s equal parts annoyed and guilty that he accused Hale of stealing Izzy when he actually didn’t, but it’s not like Hale ever apologized about the Penny situation.

Hale is standing close enough to him that Stiles can smell his woodsy, earthy sweat, can see how his eyes are this hazel pinwheel of color, and he wonders if his scruff feels as soft as it looks.

And then Stiles says, “You know what? Fuck it,” and kisses him.

*

Stiles expects, at the very least, a shove. Maybe a tight grip on the front of his t-shirt, a _what-the-hell_ shake. What he gets is a dazed-looking Hale and a stunned-quiet group of betas behind him, so Stiles gets out of there while the getting is good.

He hops into his jeep and speeds off and glances at the Hale pack in his rear view mirror—models, all of them, standing in the deepening twilight like they’re filming the opening credits of a CW show.

This could be either bad or good for the McCall pack, he doesn’t honestly know. He wouldn’t mind kissing Hale again, though.

His phone rings when he’s halfway home.

Scott says, “Derek called. He’s telling Isaac to stop peeing on my mailbox,” in a slightly high and frantic voice. “Did you know he was peeing on my mailbox?”

“No, Scott, of course I didn’t know,” Stiles says. Scott’s the werewolf, shouldn’t he be able to smell these things? No wonder Melissa’s daisies never came up this year, though. Huh.

“And he wants to borrow you for some ward setting,” Scott says. “I really hope that isn’t a euphemism.”

“Okay,” Stiles says. Stiles would be fine if that was a euphemism, but he’s not getting his hopes up.

“And he let me know that Izzy’s okay,” Scott says, voice subtly changing to his Disappointed Alpha tone, and Stiles winces. “Since apparently your brain melted after you _kissed him_ and forgot to tell me that important news. I had the whole pack out looking!”

“Oh my god,” Stiles says, hands tightening on the steering wheel. “Why would he _tell_ you?”

“Because he wants to _court my Emissary_ , you ass!” Scott says.

Stiles…has nothing to say to that. He listens to Scott breathe and bites his lip and checks and makes sure none of this has woken up Izzy and they have five very awkward, silent minutes on the phone until Stiles pulls into his driveway.

He turns off the engine and sits there, listening to the tick-tick-hiss of it cooling.

“So,” Stiles finally says. “Hale said he liked me?”

Scott groans. He says, “I’m hanging up.”

“You owe me at least three years of sex talk and pining,” Stiles reminds him, not that he particularly feels like cashing in, but all he hears is the beep-beep-beep of a call ended.

*

Stiles tucks Izzy into bed that night and Izzy says, “Can I marry Penny when I grow up?”

Stiles says, “You can marry whoever you want to, sweet pea,” and secretly hopes it’s not a Hale.

Hales and Hale-adjacents are all hot douchebag assholes; all of this is bound to end horribly. Stiles only wishes sunshine and happiness for Izzy, and so far Penelope Hale has been complicit in two kidnappings. Runaways?

Kidnappings.

Izzy yawns into a swift, exhausted sleep.

Stiles nods off a couple times over his iPad so he packs it in early, too.

It’s only when he’s two-thirds into dreamland that he realizes he never got a single iris up this spring in the back garden. “Goddamn it, Hale,” he says, hands fisted in his sheets, suddenly wide awake. That is so not cool.

His window’s thrown wide open, and he swears he hears someone laughing on the night breeze.

**Author's Note:**

> sometimes I write stuff on [tumblr](http://pantstomatch.tumblr.com)


End file.
